


Hail to the King

by LeafOnTheWind



Series: Naughty Naughts [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Edward Elric, Anal Sex, Automail, Be safe out there y'all, Blow Jobs, Bottom Roy Mustang, Communication, Condoms, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Fuhrer Roy Mustang, Hangover, Happy Ending, How did I forget that, Hydrate Yo'self, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Smut, Sneaking Out, Top Edward Elric, a little plot, as a treat, if you know what i mean, on both sides tbh, they never are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27444244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOnTheWind
Summary: After Mustang’s coronation party, Ed brings him home, gets him water and painkillers for his hangover tomorrow, and gets more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Series: Naughty Naughts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071557
Comments: 25
Kudos: 151





	Hail to the King

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Reverti Ad Praeteritum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226465) by [Batsutousai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsutousai/pseuds/Batsutousai). 



> This was meant to be 2k. It is not.
> 
> Lots of internal angsting and lusting and inner monologue-ing. The ending isn't happy, persay, but it is optimistic, I think, so read it as you like.
> 
> I imagine this takes place considerably after canon, probably when Ed's 22 and Roy's 36 or so. The age gap's still considerable, but no underage here, no siree.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: _I finally remembered what fic inspired this!!_ Thanks ever so much to the gracious Batsutousai, who let me link this after the fact to their amazing fic up above. Highly recommend.

Ed should be cold, he muses. His breath puffs out into the darkness. Automail isn’t the best for extreme temperatures, normally. Lifelike or not, it’s still metal. His ports can attest to that. It gets blisteringly hot in the summer, literally so if he’s not careful, and ice packs and cold baths can only do so much. He sweats like a motherfucker in his long coat and gloves, but it’s better than the alternative of his false limbs burning into his skin, his muscle, his bone, feeling a tongue of pain worm its way into his nerves and down his spine, making it impossible to think.

Winter is another beast entirely. Summer, at least, has cool baths and shade; winter, he’s lucky if it’s only once a week that he can barely get out of bed, his joints frozen in place and sending a lethargic chill through his system. Just like in summer, hot water helps, but he’s in Central now, and the air is bitter and sharp even—especially?—when it’s clear and dark, as it is now. The water would chill quickly, and then proceed to freeze his automail rather more directly. So no hot water, no hotpacks, just the vicious nighttime cold, biting into his nose and cheeks and, yes, automail ports.

Maybe that’s why Ed is bringing the bastard home. Mustang’s steps stutter, supported as he is by Ed’s frigid arm, exuding warmth even through his fancy-ass uniform.

Fuhrer Mustang. About goddamn time.

The party was good enough, Ed thinks. He’s hardly one to enjoy shit like that, usually, but this was a worthy occasion, and most of the crew from the East managed to make it. There was a ballroom, to start, full of fucking politicians and people trying to butter up their new overlord, knowing damn well that they’d sooner cut his throat as support him in truth. Ed tried to hold back his glower for Mustang’s sake. They’ll come around eventually, or they’ll be replaced. Mustang has too much good to do to be dealing with those assholes.

Enough time and alcohol, and hardly anyone noticed when his allies—his _true_ allies, Hawkeye and Fuery and Jean and the others, grabbed him under his arms and dragged him, mock-protesting, to the back room to just… be.

There was a fireplace, Ed knows. Mustang had taken control once they got in there and directed him right next to it, sitting on the plush rug like the rest of them, a weight lifted from his shoulders making him ten years younger, not that he needed it.

Mustang’s eyes crinkled with genuine joy, reflecting the firelight from Ed’s other side when he turned to make sure he was still involved, still enjoying himself. Ed cursed at him, but he just laughed, throwing back his head, and made a short joke.

Ed isn’t even lying to himself when he calls himself perfectly normal-sized, anymore. He’s a little taller than Mustang, even, but just this once he let it go, elbowing Mustang’s ribs good-naturedly like Ed wasn’t taking any possible excuse to touch him while he still can, while they’re curled up on the floor, brushing shoulders, so close to changing Amestris it tastes like juice in his throat, lingering and acidic and sweet all at once.

It’s been hours since then. Half of the lampposts have faded already, guttering out with a swirl of black smoke, giving Ed an idea of the time. Two hours, maybe three, till sunrise.

It’s the alcohol, surely. He hadn’t had half of what Mustang seems to have drank, if his current attempts at flirting with a still-lit streetlamp are any indication, and _Truth_ Ed’s jealous of a goddamn streetlight, but he’d had enough to be a little lightheaded and warmer than usual, at least. If he clings a little tighter than necessary to the bastard, he’s supporting him on his walk home; if he stares at his eyelashes as they flutter towards the light source they’ve paused by, he’s trying to make sure he’s still awake.

Fuck, it’s a good thing he’s leaving soon. When it was just a crush, it was _fine_ , he was a kid, he’d figured it’d fade with time.

It did not.

While Ed wasn’t paying attention, his stupid, dumbass crush took root and spread, vines sliding between his ribs and around his heart until it’s hard for him to breathe when he first sees him, until his heart stutters when the bastard casually brushes his shoulder, when he pours him another drink, when he makes fucking _eye contact_ with those goddamn _eye creases_.

A year in the south didn’t do shit for this— _thing_ like it was supposed to.

Another breath, another cloud.

That’s why he has to leave again, dammit. He may not have his alchemy, but he damn well has his brain, and he’s hardly going to _stop_. Al has his body back, thank God, but there’s so much he hasn’t done yet. He’s still obsessed with textures, and flavors, and if he has to go to the ends of the earth for them, Ed is going to make up for all the things Al had to miss for his own _stupid_ mistake. Al needs to feel every soft thing in the world, has to fall in love, has to taste and smell and dream.

And Ed can’t stop moving. If he stops, he has to listen to his own thoughts screaming at him to break down, to cry for all the things he’s lost, to kiss the man beside him. ~~His lips look so warm.~~

There is business to be had in Xing, there _is_ , but…

Another breath, slower this time. He must have had more than he thought, if he’s lingering on this bullshit. Just gotta get the bastard home, then _he_ can go home and emphatically _not_ think about Mustang in his bed, flushed and panting, his lips swollen and glistening, his—

Mustang turns back to him as the light atop the pole flickers and fades with a crease between his eyebrows and what might charitably be called a pout. Ed rearranges his shoulder, pulling Mustang in to lean on him a little more. For his stability, of course.

Of course.

By the time they make it to the bastard’s front door, Ed’s leg port is no longer particularly responsive, the numbness that comes from lingering outside for too long spreading almost to his hip. He hopes there won’t be cold burns.

Of course, the bastard couldn’t have his keys out, so Ed props him up more securely and asks, “Keys?”

He’s not sure, but he _thinks_ the bastard mumbled, “backless pocket,” and that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, so he tries the back left with his free hand, doing his best to ignore how the pads of his fingers brush against the bastard’s perfect ass as he reaches in and finds a wallet, a few coins, and, yes, a keyring.

It only takes two tries for him to get the door open, and they stumble into the warmth with relief, letting the door slam shut behind them. Ed tries not to feel the loss when Mustang slides off his arm and crouches to remove his boots, wavering until Ed stabilizes him again, hand on shoulder. He glances up, face flushed from the cold, and looks so goddamn beautiful down there, his lips curling ~~coyly~~ up at Ed.

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna go get you a water, yeah?” Ed swallows, his throat dry. One for himself, too, then. They both need to sober up, Mustang more so if he doesn’t want his first full day as Fuhrer to be completely hung over.

He stumbles through removing his boots and guesses his way down the hall. It’s been years since he’d visited Mustang’s place, and this isn’t the same house as last time. Based on the half-empty boxes Ed sees stacked along the wall in the probably-study, it looks like he’s either recently moved in or is moving out soon. It shouldn’t niggle at him so much that he doesn’t know which it is.

It’s his own fault, really. The concept of spending time with the bastard on a personal basis is way, way too attractive, just like his stupid handsome face and his dumb perfect hair, and if Mustang wants to have any support at all for his Fuhrership, he can’t exactly be in a public relationship with a man. Not that he’s thought this through, at length, many times, to the point where Al just rolls his eyes when the bastard comes up in conversation, only to be followed by a sudden, very urgent lab visit across the country.

Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

Besides, Mustang isn’t attracted to him. Doubtless he still sees him as that catatonic idiot kid he screamed at so many years ago (and wasn’t that fucked up?), or the immature teen he was at the start of his tenure as his not-subordinate. Nope. Not an option.

The glasses clink when he touches them, even through his glove.

By the time he’s filled a pair up from the tap, Mustang has stumbled in behind him and collapsed onto a barstool beside the wall. He’s slumped forward, one elbow on his legs supporting his chin, the other hanging freely. He gazes into the middle distance in Ed’s general direction until one of the two glasses is thrust into his line of view, with a gruff, “Drink up, asshole,” at which point he smiles vaguely and chugs the water. The empty glass is promptly replaced with the full one. This one he sips more slowly, but eventually finishes as well.

“Alright, Fuhrer Bastard, c’mon,” Ed grunts as he pulls Mustang back to a standing position, grateful it was a bar stool and not a couch or something. He is still tipsy, though he managed a glass of water while Mustang was downing his two. “Gotta get you to bed.”

At that, Mustang blinks up at him, his dark eyes still hazy but sharper than they have been at least since they left the party. “Really?” Thankfully, he’s started to actually help _Ed_ out in his efforts to help _Mustang_ out. The water really seems to have perked him up.

With the bastard’s guidance through his home, the two make it to the bedroom without too much more effort. They only bang up against the walls once, and Ed is able to maneuver Mustang to sit down onto the navy bedspread. The bastard promptly starts shucking his uniform jacket, tossing it over an armchair in the corner.

Ed wonders whether the Fuhrer uniform is actually different, or whether Bradley and Grumman just had similar shitty styles. This might be the last time he wears this outfit, dumb over-skirt and all. That’s too bad; the black under-shirt he’s wearing now is ridiculously tight and far too alluring. Ed catches himself staring at the hint of muscles underneath, the moonlight shining through the open curtains casting shadows across his neck and shoulders and chest and—

And when Roy reaches across to start pulling the shirt up, revealing inch after mouthwatering inch, he just about stops breathing. He manages to croak out, “Gonna… water. Get you more water, you… you’ll need it, tomorrow,” and gets himself out of there. The thought of Roy Mustang, spread across his duvet that Ed now knows, bathed in moonlight, his hair in uncharacteristic disarray, flushed and moaning Ed’s name is—it’s a lot more intoxicating than the party was, at least. He needs a moment to cool down. Ironic, given how much he was bitching earlier, even in his own mind, but they’re both drunk. Nope.

He does go and get more water. No matter how much Mustang downs now, a hangover’s a done deal for tomorrow morning, might as well make it easier for the bastard. On that note, he takes a detour to the bathroom, hoping for a medicine cabinet with—ah, yep, painkillers, perfect, Ed picks out a couple of those as well for his meager care package and heads back.

As much as he tries to muffle it, his steps are heavy and unsteady, unbalanced, so he takes his time. Hopefully Mustang will be dressed in his sleep clothes, whatever those may be, by the time he gets back, so he’ll be able to drop these off and get the fuck away from this special personal hell.

It is so much worse than he anticipated.

Ed’s breath catches in his throat when he sees Mustang’s pale chest splattered with scar tissue in the dim lighting. Mustang has moved back on the bed, shirtless, one leg propped up and only making it more obvious that his pants are undone, too, a gentle hint of hair drawing his eyes down to Mustang’s underwear peeking out, and _oh_ Ed should _not_ be looking too closely there, or he’ll be able to see _exactly_ what he can’t have, but how he _wants._

He swallows, suddenly parched, but gamely moves forward. What would he taste like, he wonders. The glass and painkillers make their way to the side table, and Ed is about to beat a hasty retreat so he can hastily beat something else in a private and not-at-all-creepy fashion when an entirely bare arm reaches out and grabs his automail wrist.

Fuck, and his hand reaches all the way around. Of course it does. Long, strong fingers (from constant snapping, perhaps?) encircle his wrist, connected to Mustang’s arm, attached to his torso that is sitting up and flexing in an effort to pull Ed back towards the bed.

There’s no way he can deal with that right now, he really can’t.

He does, and he doesn’t. Either way, Mustang gets what he wants, and Ed props himself on the edge of the mattress. “What is it? What else do you need?” Neither one moves, and Ed swallows heavily in the silence, the only sound his heartbeat thundering in his ears and a quiet shifting of sheets below him. He readjusts in an attempt to hide his perfectly human reaction to being pulled towards a bed by the object of his ~~adoration~~ lust and continues. “C’mon, Bastard, you’re choosing now of all times to shut up?”

More silence as Ed meets Mustang’s eyes for a long moment. Mustang’s eyes dart down beside him.

“Stay.”

“…What?” He couldn’t have heard that right.

Mustang clears his throat and continues, his voice firmer. “Stay. Please.” It sounds like a declaration, Ed _will_ stay, rather than the request its words claim. He continues with a muttered, “Might as well try for two life goals in a day,” only to be followed up with another declaration. “Stay tonight. Just tonight, if you want, just…” he trails off.

Mustang’s typical confidence was only ever a façade, Ed knows, but it’s left him vulnerable tonight, and to Ed of all people. He knows what he does will change things either way, but he’s not entirely sure how. Mustang’s the one who’s good at subterfuge, at lying with a smile if it gets him where he wants to go, but he _is_ where he wants to go, isn’t he? Why bother lying here, to Ed who’s seen through his stupid public face for years?

It doesn’t matter. “You’re drunk, Mustang. You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” Ed wants him _so_ badly, and he will definitely be using this memory at length tonight and long into the future. Roy Mustang half-naked and artfully draped on his own bed and pleading so sweetly for Ed to just _stay_ , is why Ed _absolutely_ cannot stay the night here. He’s never shown interest sober. Ed has to remind himself of this several times, and starts to pull away, hand or no hand, when Mustang tightens his grip and _pulls_.

Ed isn’t expecting it, and stumbles towards him, redirecting his automail to Roy’s other side to prevent injury at the last second, and then Roy is kissing him.

Roy is kissing him, and everything is perfect.

His lips are smooth and dry, moving against his own as he automatically responds, his gasp swallowed by the man below him. Roy’s free hand tangles itself in his hair and grips just to pull him in a little more. He closes his eyes. It feels like drowning, it feels like bliss. The taste of champagne lingers somehow as Ed opens himself to Roy’s probing, then matches him beat for beat.

Ed’s left hand, still gloved, trails up Mustang’s bare skin to rest on his waist just beside his scars from Lust, supportive. Ed is lost. He does notice when the object of his adoration flips them over, Ed now on his back, fully clothed, with a visibly aroused, almost predatory Roy hovering above him.

Mustang dips his head down and Ed can’t stop himself from moaning as he moves on to pepper kisses along his jawline. “Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll stop,” he says, mouthing at the corner of Ed’s jaw. Roy slows down his kisses and reaches towards the buttons of Ed’s military jacket, undoing them one at a time. “Tell me you don’t want me,” a button undone and a kiss gifted, “Tell me and I’ll stop, Fullmetal,” another button, “ _Edward_.”

He wonders if Roy’s pulse is beating as heavy a rhythm as his is, or whether it’s steady and sure as always as he tears down his defenses.

“I…” Ed begins.

Roy finishes with his coat, pulling it open, only to do the same with his waistcoat. Roy’s eyes are deep and intense, like when he’s fully immersed in a project or a case, slowly running his hands up Ed’s torso, untucking his button-down and leaning down to shower kisses there as well. Ed wants to pull him in and push him away all at once, he can’t take this kind of, of _temptation_.

“God, you’re so beautiful. So strong and glorious, you have no idea how much I’ve longed for this,” he says, lips dragging on Ed’s skin, intoxicating, as he does. But _that_ is impossible, and it brings Ed back just enough.

“Mustang, you’ve gotta—”

“Tell me to—“

“Stop.”

The room freezes as Ed’s voice calls out, and Mustang stops as requested. They’re both painfully erect, but Ed can’t do this. He’s—he’s taking advantage, he can’t do this to him, to Roy.

“Bastard, you’re—you’re drunk. You can’t,” he takes a shaky breath. “ _You don’t know what you’re asking_ ,” he repeats.

The bastard’s face is still heated, sending a coil of arousal through Ed. “I’ll stop if you want, _Edward_ ,” he purrs, “but I, at least, know _exactly_ what I want. You, naked, nowish, here on my bed, hopefully more than once.” He sounds playful, his words deep and heady and more affecting than any of the alcohol from earlier.

Ed knows this is a terrible idea. He’s never been one for one-night stands, he’s never gone into loving someone halfheartedly. If this is just a one-night thing, it will kill him more than the loss of alchemy, more surely than Truth ever could, limbs or no.

But isn’t it better to have this? To have this one night, and damn the consequences, even if it kills him? And… Ed glances down. It would be cruel, wouldn’t it, to leave Mustang wanting like this?

Roy Mustang is still hovering above him, propped on his arms stretched long on either side of Ed, the blank smile he shows when he wants to give nothing away on display. He doesn’t show that to his friends, to Ed, not anymore. “What do _you_ want, Edward?”

Motionless, Mustang waits for Ed to choose.

Ed has always been good at lying to himself.

Ed pulls his hands up to his chest, slowly pulling off his gloves finger by finger, baring his hand and then his automail and tossing the gloves aside. Gently, gently, he brings them up to run through Roy’s hair, soft as night, and cups his face. For a moment, everything is still. Ed takes another shuddering breath, looking into Roy’s heavy gaze, waiting, and pulls him down to meet him.

If it exists, he’s going to Hell for this.

Ed can’t help the swoop of his stomach as that false smile relaxes against his lips, pressing in with a fever, forceful. He’s pressed into the sheets again, Roy grinning against his skin, plundering only to be rebuffed by Ed biting harshly at his swollen lower lip.

He seems happy to return the favor before retreating from that battlefield and continuing his previous progress with Ed’s shirt, nipping and biting as he unwraps his former subordinate. Ed’ll have to be careful changing around Al for a while, he thinks, but doesn’t move to stop Roy from marking up his collarbone, his chest, his stomach.

When all the damn buttons have been dealt with Ed is finally shirtless as well, and Roy takes full advantage, pressing against him neck to navel. Sweat builds where they touch even as snow starts to fall outside, and Roy grasps the nape of his neck for another bruising kiss.

Ed has all the power here, he knows, but he feels helpless as he reaches up to cup Mustang through the thin cloth. The heat is unbearable. Their mouths break apart as Roy gasps and Ed turns down to look at what he’s doing, firming his grasp and stroking him once, twice through the material. It hides nothing.

“ _Edward…_ ” Mustang breathes, and lets Ed take control once more, leaning back onto his heels when prompted, his pants shuffling down ever further as he moves.

“Take off your pants, Bastard,” Ed orders. He expects Roy to put up a token protest, but he’s too far gone. His pupils are blown, and he does as Ed asks eagerly, tugging himself free and grasping his own erection. Ed couldn’t speak if he wanted to, and it looks like he knows that, the smug bastard, stroking lazily like he’s a work of goddamn art.

He’s _his_ work of goddamn art, at least for tonight. Fucker.

“Stop that,” Ed bats Roy away. He pushes Roy to lean back more, twisting so he’s propped against the pillows rather than the edge of the bed and takes Roy’s cock in hand himself, stroking experimentally. A startled moan forces its way out of Roy’s throat, filling the large room.

While he’s by no means a virgin, it has been a while. Fortunately, Ed is nothing if not a scientist, and takes careful note of what’s just okay versus what makes Roy’s breath hitch, what makes his gasps turn into pants, what draws out one of those delicious moans, and executes. Roy’s eyes flutter closed against his will, his mouth running with guidance and fake compliments, “Edward, that feels _so_ good, you’re incredible, beautiful, _oh_ just like that, please.”

He’s still fuckin’ polite, the asshole.

Even that stops when Ed bends down to Roy’s erection, shorter than his own but girthier, and licks up the precome dripping down his shaft, his tongue flat and wide against the vein beneath. Salty. He glances up to see Roy, his flush stretching down his neck. Ed’s never been good at reading expressions, so he stops for a moment to ask, “This alright?”

“Yes, _yes_ it’s all right, by all means, I—” Roy responds with a laugh, one hand gripping the bedspread, the other reaching forward to push Ed’s bangs out of his face. “I want _anything_ you’re willing to give me.”

Fuck, but he loves this asshole. _Shit_.

He nods in response. What can Ed do but continue? It’s been a while since he’s given a blowjob, but it’s like riding a bicycle, or something. Not that he actually knows how to do that. Beside the point, anyway, with Roy’s dick _right there_.

Ed brings his nose to the dark curls at the base of his cock, making hard eye contact before reaching out his tongue and licking up the side. Tastes like skin, sure, but Roy’s. He blinks, slowly, savoring it. At the tip, he mouths at the head a little before taking it in and sucking, just a little.

The jerk of Roy’s hips as he does so gives the green light there, so he does it again. An unsteady “Edward,” follows as he dips his head down and back up, a little deeper each time, his tongue pressing up, his teeth safely behind his lips, until he’s almost at his limit.

It isn’t a good idea on the best of days for Ed to try to deepthroat, and inebriation _definitely_ doesn’t help there, but the next drawn-out “ _Edward_ ,” takes his higher functioning and tosses it right out the window. Just a little more. If he can hear that again, it will be worth it.

Ed chokes on Roy’s cock. Not his _best_ idea, Ed muses as he does, the appendage leaking profusely into his throat, but the way he sees Roy throw his head back, his adam’s apple bobbing in the moonlight, is _so_ worth it. Ed has to stop after a moment or two, moving back to the deepest he can normally go, before relaxing his throat and trying again.

Much better.

Roy seems to agree, his eyes clenched tightly closed, the hand in Ed’s bangs running through his hair and clenching, not pulling or pushing just there, the other in his own mouth muffling those beautiful sounds.

He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. Ed wants _more_.

“Edward, you gotta… you need to stop, or I’m going to—to come, and—”

Ed pulls off, setting his hand to match his previous pace, and asks, “What if I want you to come?” as he pauses, tracing his thumb along the ridge of the head. He continues. “Don’t you want to? Isn’t that what you want, Fuhrer Bastard?” Another pause. He dips down briefly to kiss the base again, dipping his tongue into the precum beading at the top on his way up.

“It’s not about— _ah—_ what I want here, you’re— _"_

He dips his automail lower, just brushing along the crease of his ass. “Yes, it is, Mustang. What do you _want_ right now?”

It’s practically a wail when he blurts out, “ _I want to come with you inside me!_ But if you keep _doing that,_ I’ll—”

“Didn’t you say you wanted more than once? Or is that too much exercise for you, old man?”

“I—” Roy’s face lights up with disbelieving delight, as if he’s being given twelve years of gifts at once. “…I—that’s an option? Yes, absolutely, if you— _Edward._ "

Ed is back to work, and Roy stops speaking altogether in favor of the most incredible sounds. Already so close to the edge, it’s not too long before Roy is tensing up beneath him, his back arching, and then Ed is pulling back slightly and swallowing, his hand stroking him through his climax. _Oh_ , he’s fucking gorgeous when he comes.

Mustang’s whole body relaxes inch by inch, his grip on Ed’s hair loosening to drop to his heaving chest, shining with sweat. His hair, usually artfully tousled, is much more tousled than artful, sticking up in the back where he rubbed up against the pillows behind him. He’s beautiful afterwards, too.

He’s boneless underneath Ed as he kisses the base of Roy’s softening cock, bites along his hip joint, mouths at Roy’s neck. The only motion he bothers with is reaching up to run his fingers through Ed’s bangs again, pulling some out of his plait as he does so.

This is… far too intimate, isn’t it? Ed swallows, the taste of Roy thick on his tongue. He memorizes it. If Mustang falls asleep, that’ll be it, he’ll just… go home. He shifts his weight and winces at the reminder of his own hardness, still almost fully clothed. Let his Fuhrer sleep it off while he brings himself off to the thought of Roy in the bath, in his bed.

It would be fine. He’d just given Roy a blowjob, one that he might not even remember in the morning. He’d sated him, he’d… he’d barely touched him, there’s no way Mustang could hold this against him in the morning.

Ed leans his forehead down to the crook of Roy’s neck and grimaces. He could definitely hold it against him. He’d be well within his rights never to speak to Ed again, after this gross opportunism. Maybe he should leave, he doesn’t want to deal with that shit. He’d deserve it, of course, but...

Yeah, that might work. He’ll go home tonight, tell Al they need to leave earlier than they thought. They can exchange the tickets, get on the next train out in the morning. Their place is already almost packed, he’ll just need to leave the keys with someone to close out. Usually, he’d say Mustang, but, well…

The smell of smoke and sweat and champagne is intoxicating. Mustang’s chest is rising and falling pretty evenly, so Ed risks a look up to see if he’s asleep yet, if he’ll be able to get out of here and engage in some self-flagellation in peace.

Instead, he meets Roy’s eyes once again. They’re blue, he notices, not black like they appear from afar. He’s not moving, just breathing and looking at Ed, a smirk playing at his lips. He raises an eyebrow quizzically.

Fuck.

Ed flushes suddenly and recoils, or tries to. Roy’s already traced his hair down to its tie, pulling the braid forward to kiss, his other hand firmly on Ed’s hip as he softly grinds up.

“How is it that we’ve come this far,” he punctuates that with a roll of his hips, “and yet you’re _still_ wearing pants?”

Ed’s erection, flagging, comes back with a vengeance. Apparently Roy’s has too, if the weight against his hip is anything to go by. Turns out he really does have a short refractory period.

The thought of lazy mornings, going again and again, or banging out a series of quickies during commercial breaks on the television, or just _very_ long sessions at night punctuate Ed’s brain. Not every time, of course, but occasionally… No. There isn’t going to _be_ a next time, Ed.

“I can hear you thinking too hard, Fullmetal. _Pants._ ” He tugs at a belt loop impatiently and pouts playfully before freezing for a moment. That awful fake expression gradually goes back up. Ed has always hated it. “Unless you don’t want to, of course. We could… we could just—”

“If you think for one goddamn minute that I haven’t wanted you for _years_ , you stayed blinder than I thought, asshole,” Ed grits out. Shit. He can only hope he doesn’t remember that in the morning, that’s mortifying.

Roy lights up again, a grin pulling his cheeks wide. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” Ed warns. “Don’t you—”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he obviously lies. “ _Years_ , you say?” He lets go of Ed’s hair only to reach between them and into Ed’s undergarments. “Did you think about this when you were giving your terrible reports? When you were causing property damage, knowing you’d need to explain it?” He’s in Hell already, isn’t he. “Were you hoping you’d need to give a different kind of apology, Fullmetal?”

Ed is retreating again. This whole time he’s been running away from this, this _thing_ , whatever it is, over and over again, and he’s not gonna stop now.

Maybe he just likes being reeled back in.

“Get those pants off,” he purrs, “then get back over here and _fuck me_ like I want you to.”

“Is that an order, Fuhrer Bastard?” Why is everything a fucking power play with them? He wants this too, of _course_ he does, but he’s gotta push back, at least a little. It’s habit.

Roy grinds up once more into Ed with a performative groan before bringing both hands up to his chest and pushing back. Ed doesn’t put up much of a fight, and moves to doff the offending garments when Roy twists to reach to the bedside cabinet.

This really is the ideal lighting, catching each contour as he turns back, holding a half-empty bottle and a small square packet. Half-empty. Tonight is gonna be the death of Ed.

Ed is frozen in place as Roy pops open the bottle, dipping one finger in before putting it aside within easy reach. A slow blink and eye contact again as Roy, still on his back, reaches down between his legs, sprawled wide and shameless for Ed’s viewing pleasure. He pushes his hair back from his face with one hand as the other circles his ass, dipping in briefly, teasing himself.

After a moment, he pushes in slowly, a little deeper every time, then faster, until he’s in to the knuckle. Then he pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, moaning, eyes hooded, putting on a show. Fuck if it isn’t working, though. He could be in a fuckin’ burlap sack and Ed would still want this, but this… performance… is absolutely affecting him. How could it not, when he’s fantasized about this exact view so many times?

His imagination never did it justice. Could never have done it justice.

Roy is two fingers in, thrusting roughly, by the time Ed finally gets himself together enough to do just about anything, and that only because he notices how fast Roy is going. Too fast. He’ll hurt himself if he’s not careful. So Ed shakes himself free of his clothing, kicking the remaining garments off as fast as he can, and takes over.

“Stop that, asshole, you’ll hurt yourself.” Ed flushes at his choice of words, but continues, reaching across Roy to the bottle. He’s already picked up some slick when he realizes what he’s feeling—is that—machine oil? What the fuck?

“What if I want to feel this in the morning?”

“Well, you’ll have a helluva time sitting on that shitty throne of yours.” Seriously, he’s been using machine oil as lube? I mean, it’s convenient for Ed, it won’t gum up his automail if it gets on it accidentally or anything, but it stains like a motherfucker and smells pretty strong.

He wonders if Mustang has some of that fancy soap Winry has to get it out of cloth, as they’re _definitely_ getting some on the sheets. A glance down shows they already have. “And not that I’m complaining, but why the hell are you using this instead of, like, some fancy shit?”

“Well then, for the sake of Amestris, why don’t you show me how you’d rather I touch myself, hm?” he responds, completely ignoring the latter question. He’s flushing. Why is he embarrassed now of all times?

“Oh, fuck Amestris, you don’t really think I care about—”

“For my poor throne’s sake, then, Edward, are you going to touch me or not?” He punctuates that with a particularly rough thrust, not quite enough oil on his fingers not to pull on his rim.

A growl erupts from Ed at the taunt. He grabs at Roy’s thighs, spreading them obscenely wide and fitting himself between them, yanking Roy’s hand out of the way and just looking for a moment. His fucking Fuhrer, the only commanding officer he’d ever bothered to consider following, naked and splayed wide open for Ed. An impatient hand reaches back down, but Ed grabs his wrist and pulls it to the side. He knows Mustang could break his grip, if he wanted, but he doesn’t.

Ed wants to devour him, wants to swallow him whole and keep him with him forever, a burning in his belly that’s been there for years already, banked and safe, roaring into a bonfire over the course of tonight.

His flesh hand occupied, Ed doesn’t think overmuch before dipping his automail and just barely touches the glistening rim, already slightly pinked from the abuse Roy’s enacted. Mustang flinches at the contact.

Ed pulls away immediately, an apology on the tip of his tongue, when Roy says, “No, don’t—don’t pull away, just cold, not—Fullmetal, Edward, _please._ ”

He touches again, more firmly this time, letting his forefinger sink in only an inch. “Are you saying you want me to use this hand, Mustang?” A muttered affirmative shifts him in another inch. “I’ll have to go even _slower_ with this hand. There are ridges yours don’t have,” another inch and he has the one finger fully inside of Mustang. “Or maybe you’re saying I’m cold? Am I being _cold_ to you, Bastard?” He starts to withdraw.

“No, no, not at all, hot and cold maybe,” he responds with a breathless laugh. Ed starts up a slower pace than Roy had, careful not to catch Roy’s already sensitive skin on his joints, ensuring he’s properly loosened up this time. “More than that, come on, I’m not a wilting flower you have to— _oh,_ ” he cuts off after Ed pulls out again, liberally coats two fingers this time, and starts in with two. “Oh, _yes,_ ”

Ed could die like this, he thinks. Gently pumping his hand into Roy’s ass, Roy breathless below him. He wishes he had better tactile feedback, but Roy’s very vocal reaction to the automail means he hardly needs it. On the next pass, his second knuckle joint catches a little at his rim, and Roy’s cock twitches up in response.

“Pain, too, huh?” Ed releases Roy’s wrist, his hand tracing a path up his arm and across to his hard nipples and yanking. He gets the same response. “I’m not into it, myself, the giving or the receiving.” He huffs a laugh. “I’ve had enough pain for a lifetime. But tonight’s for you, ain’t it?”

As he continues loosening Mustang up, Ed’s free hand scratches red tracks down and across Mustang’s abdomen, tense with arousal. He gentles as he gets lower, lingering just above Roy’s dripping cock, just touching as he gets Mustang to relax more, a little more, before moving back up. He’s biting a little more harshly than earlier, pulling at the scratches he’s making, being a little less careful with his hand. The music pouring out of Roy makes it all worth it, no question.

When he has a little more leeway, Mustang comfortably loose around his two fingers, he can’t resist the temptation and leans down, slipping his tongue in beside them. The taste of machine oil is one Ed is intensely familiar with, anytime he doesn’t take care when eating he gets a little in his food. It’s not a flavor he’s fond of. But mixed with the taste of Roy… he could get used to this. Rather, he could, given the time.

Man, Roy is really being pretty passive, now that Ed thinks about it. Entitled prick, expecting Ed to do all the work while he sits there looking pretty. Typical.

That doesn’t stop Ed from devouring the words, the sounds Roy’s making like a starving man.

It takes him a bit longer with the lack of tactile feedback, but the guttural sound that Roy makes, the writhing when he finally finds his prostate damn near makes Ed come from that alone.

He’s been at the edge of orgasm for so long at this point he thinks a mistaken brush against the bedspread will push him over.

The passage of time doesn’t seem to mean much. Ed has no idea how long he’s down between Roy’s legs, licking and sucking and biting and scratching as he writhes around him, until Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, Fuhrer of Amestris, is begging him, “For _fuck’s sake_ , Fullmetal, just _fuck me already!_ ”

He pulls back and asks, “Is that an order?” before going right back down. Roy’s been prepped for a while now, has been teased and brought to the edge and kept there.

Mustang lets out a frustrated yell. “If that’s what it takes, then _yes_ , that’s an order!” His cock was flushed and leaking continuously, bereft of any direct stimulation, yet responding so beautifully to Ed.

“I’m not a dog of the military anymore, though, am I?” he says, but he also pulls his automail away, pushing himself up so he can look Mustang in the eyes again. He must look a mess, his face and hands stained by the oil, flushed from holding his breath, his hair in disarray, partially pulled free. It’s worth it to see that look on Roy’s face, that mixture of pleasure and frustration. He reaches over the incandescent man below him and tears open a small package, rolling it down his length.

Roy is impatient, pushing up as much as he can as Ed nudges his own arousal against Roy, just barely pushing in and pulling away, as if he’s still considering _not_ fucking him. He lowers himself down, wrapping one arm around Mustang’s waist where it arches up, and can’t help but steal another kiss. Mustang barely seems to notice, he’s panting so intently. “But just for you… _sir_.”

At that, he finally, finally pushes into Roy, slowly, slowly, until he’s fully enveloped. Fucking hell, Roy feels _so_ good, dripping with oil and spit, and so, so tight and warm around him, beneath him.

They both have to take a moment to catch their breath, Roy having been teased for so long and Ed having kept himself on the edge for even longer. He takes a long moment, pulling Roy close; he wants to last longer than just a few weak thrusts.

Mustang’s arms automatically wrap around his neck. “Hah, I never— _ah_ —thought I’d hear you call me that,” he says, adjusting his hips slightly. Even that small amount of movement sends a spike of pleasure through Ed, and he grips his hip forcefully, shutting his eyes in concentration. Careful as he is, he’ll probably still leave bruises; Mustang doesn’t seem to be opposed.

“Just… give me a moment, yeah?” He feels more than sees Roy nod in response, instead letting his hands roam the younger man’s back, tracing scars and divots, drinking him in. It doesn’t help.

After gathering himself, Ed reaches with his free hand to hike up Roy’s leg on one side, pushing just that little further, and is rewarded with an unsteady, “ _Oh_ yeah.”

That’s a sign of readiness if he’s ever heard one, so Ed cautiously begins to move, shallow at first before deepening to Mustang’s clear approval. Once again, he takes careful catalogue of Roy’s reactions until he finds _just_ the right angle to make him wail, and then _keeps doing_ _that_ , Roy’s hands scrabbling to find purchase through his pleasure.

The slide of their bodies against each other, the feeling of being so surrounded by Roy’s body and scent and cries, it’s so _much_. His mind is screaming so loudly he doesn’t understand how Roy can’t hear it as he pulls him into another kiss, maps every inch of his mouth, pours into it _I love you I love you you dumb beautiful lazy devious bastard how do you not see how can you not know—_

The man below him is responding beautifully, sensually, deeply as he wraps his legs around Ed and yanks him more forcefully in. Ed can feel his cock hard against his stomach, rubbing against him with every thrust of his hips, smearing precome onto them both.

Roy curves his back, reaching between the two of them to bring himself that little bit further and over the edge, but Ed blocks him. Impatient, Roy throws his weight behind his hips and rolls them over, not pausing in their rhythm but taking control of it.

Helpless, Ed lets him do it, lets him do whatever the hell he wants. He sits up to mouth at Roy’s neck, not willing to stop holding him even as he sets a vicious speed. Roy is going fast and hard, dropping down with his whole weight as Ed jerks upwards unintentionally to meet him.

It’s a miracle he’s lasted this long, so it’s not surprising when Ed starts to feel himself coming. “Fuck, Roy—” He desperately reaches between the two of them to grasp at Roy again, grip unyielding and matching Roy’s own pace. Ed’s nails dig into Roy’s back and then he’s coming as well, his insides fluttering and drawing out Ed’s own orgasm just that little bit longer. His voice, hoarse after all this time, shouts once more as his come splashes over Ed’s chest.

Then it’s over, isn’t it.

Roy lifts himself off and just about collapses on top of Ed, heedless of his own come pooled on his stomach. As uncomfortable as he is right now, laying in a spot wet with oil and come and sweat, Ed is loathe to move, but needs must. If nothing else, he needs to clean them up. He looks at Roy where he’s leaning into the crook of his shoulder. _He_ clearly isn’t going to.

“Arright, you lazy ass, get off,” Ed grumbles with a gentle smack to his aforementioned lazy ass.

He responds with a mumbled “Just did,” but obligingly rolls off to the side, freeing Ed. Reluctantly, he gets up, dripping as little as possible on his way to the en suite.

Once in, he ties off the condom and begins methodically wiping himself down.

No regrets, he said to himself earlier, but it doesn’t help the twist in his guts right now. He leans his hands on the sink, letting his head fall forward to the cool glass of the mirror.

He only hopes Roy—Mustang—can forgive him for this, one day.

He picks up a new damp towel and walks back to the bedroom.

\--

Ed had tried to leave, afterwards, desperately not wanting to see or hear the fallout as Mustang realized what he’d done, but Mustang was adamant that he stay. He pulled him back down to rest on his chest in a mirror of how Roy had lain on Ed earlier, Roy’s arm wrapped around his waist. The choice out of his hands, Ed had merely pulled the blankets overtop the two of them. No need to be guilty _and_ cold, after all.

His fingers trace down the welts he’d left earlier, the skin slightly warmer there. Perhaps after Roy falls asleep, he could sneak out. He falls still. Best let him sleep, then. He can’t be helping as it is.

It’s a few minutes of steady, even breaths, on both of their parts until Ed thinks Mustang might have fallen asleep.

Then Roy’s hands move, slowly and carefully. They find themselves in Ed’s hair once more, undoing the tie. Gentle tugging brings it out of its plait as Roy runs his fingers through the strands, detangling and smoothing them down Ed’s back. The ministrations are repetitive and soothing, and soon Ed is drifting off himself.

Ed is barely awake, if he is at all, when Roy sighs under his breath, “Fullmetal is right.” His hand trails across Ed’s shoulders to trace the ugly seam of his automail. “Gold and silver all the way through.”

His eyelids must be made of metal, too, he muses. Perhaps lead, or some other heavy metal. He hopes he doesn’t get heavy metal poisoning.

The man below him continues to speak, but Ed can no longer make it out.

Edward dreams.

\--

\--

\--

Cotton mouth is the first thing Ed perceives when he wakes up. That, and a beam of light directly into his all-too-sensitive eyes. Ugh. He smacks his lips, dissatisfied. Must’ve spent too much time making sure Mustang was gonna be fine, and not enough—

Wait. Shit.

His eyes fly open, heedless of the twinge of headache already developing. He does his best to keep his breathing even and takes stock.

He is still in Mustang’s room. He is still in Mustang’s bed. He is currently spooning Mustang in Mustang’s bed. Based on where the sun is, it can’t be too late, maybe midmorning. Al is gonna kill him for this. Hell, _he’s_ gonna kill him for this.

Okay. He needs to get the hell out of this bed, without waking the fucking Fuhrer up.

Carefully, he lifts up his arm and pulls back, rolling out of bed with a _thunk_ as his left leg impacts the flooring. He freezes, but Roy— _Mustang_ —just settles a bit. He lets out the breath he didn’t notice he’d held.

He gathers his clothing, donning it as quietly as he can as he goes. Every shuffle of fabric against itself, every breath he takes, every step sounds like a foghorn. He looks at his clothes, undone but mostly in place. Everything is wrinkled. He sighs; Al is already gonna be pissed, what’s another strike against him?

The nightstand still holds the full water and painkillers he set out last night, with the addition of the slightly less full bottle of motor oil. His arm _is_ working pretty smoothly. He flushes at the memory and cuts that right off. Anything else he can do? Should he close the curtains, or will that be too noisy?

Not worth the risk.

The bedroom door shuts behind him with a click, and it feels like he’s on a job even now, sneaking through an alchemist’s house. For completely different reasons than usual, of course, but even so.

He doesn’t want to be here when Roy wakes, but he does take a short detour to grab some painkillers for himself he then dry swallows. Hopefully Roy won’t even notice.

Creeping through the hallway to the door, Ed hears the distinctive tapping of feet above him. Right where the bedroom is. All color leaves his face, and being subtle really doesn’t seem as important as it did a moment ago. He immediately runs for the door, buttoning his shirt as he goes. He knows he’s doing it wrong and he looks like a hot mess, but time is not on his side. The neighbors will talk, but fuck it, he’s leaving the country _today_ if he can swing it.

He’s just grabbed his first boot when he hears a _BANG_ followed by a groan of pain. Spinning around, his heart still in his throat, Ed sees Mustang, as expected. What he is not expecting is Mustang collapsed on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, holding his nose and visibly grimacing in pain.

Suddenly, he’s kneeling beside the prone man, pulling his hands away to inspect the damage. “Oi, it’s your first day on the job and you’re already tryin’ ta get time off?” It doesn’t look too bad, he’ll probably bruise or something, but—Roy grabs his arms again. Ah, crap. How does this keep happening?

He could have been out the door at this point. Now, instead of making a semi-clean getaway towards voluntary exile, he’s kneeling next to the bastard, halfway across the house, Mustang’s hands encircling his wrists. “Not quite yet, no,” he chuckles. Carefree bastard.

He sends a glare his way and yanks his arms free, ready to yell his way out of this, but Mustang looks almost—sad? Guilty? The fuck does he have to feel guilty for? Does he have a secret wife he thinks he’s cheated on or something?

Mustang continues, “Before you go, I—” he seems to gather himself. “I need to apologize.” What. “My behavior towards you last night was intolerable. I’m not sure how much you recall, but—”

“I remember everything. Do you? Did you hit your head or some shit?”

Taken aback, Roy releases Ed. “Uh…?”

“Why the fuck would you be apologizing to me? I was the one who… who took advantage.” In for a cen, in for a hundred. “If anything, I should,” his tongue feels heavy in his skull, “I should be the one to apologize. I’m sorry, Mustang. Last night should never have happened. You were falling over drunk, and when you asked me to stay, I…”

It’s awkward. Normally Ed could get angry, could yell and fight his way out of awkward situations, but getting angry at Roy would just be rubbing salt in his wound. Unacceptable.

“…I feel as if there’s been some miscommunication. _You’re_ …?” He coughs, uneasy, before standing swiftly. Regret quickly follows, his hangover making itself _very_ known. “Urgh. Do you mind if we continue this over food or something? My head is killing me.”

Ed is about to respond in the affirmative until he’s cut off. Rrg. “Wait, no, this should really be as soon as possible. _You’re_ the one who took advantage?” he cried, incredulous, sitting up against the stairs. “I’m the one who… you did me the favor of getting me safely to my bed, and how do I repay you? By pressuring you into sex you didn’t want. How many times did you try to leave, Fullmetal? Three? Four?” He’s covering his face with his hand. Ed can see it trembling. He’s really torn up about this.

Wait. “Don’t call me that. Do you really think you could’ve forced me into sex if I didn’t _want_ it?”

“Fine. I’ve been in a position of power over you for years, _Edward_ , and I am now Fuhrer. You tried to leave, and I, as the supreme head of state, forced you back, multiple times. What else am I supposed to think? You’ve never given any indication that you—”

“You really think I give a damn about your title? When have I _ever_ given a damn about your ‘position of power’?”

Mustang snorts. “Well that’s true enough, you were always a terrible subordinate.”

Ed crosses his arms defensively. “If I wanted to go, I would’ve been gone.”

Eyes narrow. “So… Let me make sure I have this straight,” he says, Ed waving him on magnanimously. “You _wanted_ to be there, last night, sex and all.” Edward flushes, but doesn’t deny it. “You so wanted to be there, in fact, that you thought you were taking advantage of my drunken self, who in turn thought _I_ was the one taking advantage of _you_ , as Fuhrer.” Ed nods, brows creased in thought.

“…Yeah, I s’pose that about sums it up.”

Roy can’t help but laugh, curling to rub at his eyes. “I know you, Ed. How long?”

He shifts uncomfortably, leaning against the pillar that broke Mustang’s fall earlier. “A while.”

Another bark of laughter. “Yeah, me too.”

A solid minute of silence follows, until Mustang claps his hands to his knees and tries to stand again, this time managing with a typical smirk, headache or no. “So, talk about what exactly we’re doing about it over breakfast?” He offers his hand.

“You know I fuckin’ hate talking about feelings,” he scowls. “But in this case I actually can’t. Al and I are heading to Xing tomorrow morning, and there’re still some things that need to be packed up.”

The reminder sobers them both.

“But… I could do coffee, if we finish early enough. If you’re willing to wait that long, lazy bastard,” he continues, scowling.

“We’ve both waited a while, haven’t we?” Mustang steps closer to Ed, tucking some of his still-loose hair behind his ear with a tentative smile. “I can wait for coffee.”


End file.
